


Day 26: Two Chairs

by ofplanet_earth



Series: 30 days of Barduil [26]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Adorable Bardlings, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Art that Makes You Cry, Bard finally stands up for himself, Good Parent Bard, I don't even know how to tag this, M/M, Ugh, Vincent Van Gogh - Freeform, art gallery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-27
Updated: 2015-11-27
Packaged: 2018-05-03 13:44:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5293364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofplanet_earth/pseuds/ofplanet_earth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bard showed up at the National Gallery in slacks and a deep blue jumper, tucking in the tails of his button up as he stood at the base of the steps. A lump had formed in his throat.</p><p>Part two of <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/5285867">Discontent</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Day 26: Two Chairs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lorien_leaf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lorien_leaf/gifts).



> part two of the story inspired by [this post](http://lorien-leaf.tumblr.com/post/133735106060/what-if-thranduil-and-bard-were-lovers-but-not) by [lorien-leaf](http://lorien-leaf.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, though this second part is where I diverge with the specifics. 
> 
> also inspired by [LoveActuallyFan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveActuallyFan) gushing about being alone with a work of art. I quote her nearly directly. 
> 
> I would have had this up sooner, but thanksgiving dinner interfered. I'm still looking forward to pumpkin pie, though.  
> I've got less than 3k left and still four days left to go!  
> ♡

Bard never intended to arrive so late. He’d planned to leave the house for six, planned to catch a cab into the city and arrive just after the opening ceremony concluded. But Tilda’s favourite stuffed bear had lost his eye and he’d had to sew a button in its place to keep her hysterical tears at bay. Then he’d been unable to find his good jacket— only to learn after an hour of searching that Bain knew where it was. He wouldn’t tell him where or what had happened to it, only that it was dirty and he should wear something else. 

Bard didn’t press the matter. 

So he showed up at the National Gallery in slacks and a deep blue jumper, tucking in the tails of his button up as he stood at the base of the steps. A lump had formed in his throat. What did he think he was doing? This was the sort of invitation that was meant to be politely declined— it wasn’t meant to be taken seriously. It was nearly eight already and the gallery would close soon. Bard felt like a terrible inconvenience.

But he was here already and his mobile vibrated in his pocket with an incoming text message. Thranduil wanted to know if he still planned to come. He replied that he’d just arrived and tacked an apology onto the end as he started up the steps to the front doors. It wasn’t until he reached them that Bard realized he had no ticket. He stammered and blushed as he began to explain to the woman at the door, but Thranduil showed up just in time and brought him inside. 

If Thranduil made Bard feel underdressed before, he felt even more so now. He was dressed in a full three piece suit, a burgundy tie tucked into a smart charcoal waistcoat. “I’m sorry,” Bard stammered. “I didn’t mean to be so late.” 

“Nonsense! You’re right on time. Come on, we’re about to kick everyone out and there’s still some champagne left.” Bard followed Thranduil across the foyer and to a table lined with glasses and hors d’oeuvres. He accepted the flute of champagne Thranduil handed him with a nervous smile.

“Cheers,” Thranduil said, and Bard raised his glass in a toast. How long had it been since Bard last drank champagne? His wedding, perhaps. He frowned, shook the thought from his head and took another sip. A woman’s voice came over the PA asking all guests to please make their way to the main entrance and thanking them for their presence this evening. 

“Ah, there’s our cue. Would you like another?” Thranduil placed his own empty flute on the table. 

“Oh, I couldn’t,” he waved off his offer and sipped at his drink.

“Honestly Bard, there’s plenty! Trust me, walking the gallery at night is cause for celebration. Come on,” he held out the fresh glass, a determined look in his eyes.

“Alright,” Bard laughed. 

“So your daughter is in the same year as Legolas.” Bard fell into step beside Thranduil as they moved against the last trickles of the crowd. “Is she an only child?”

“No, she’s my eldest. Bain is fourteen and Tilda is five.”

“You’re a brave man,” 

“Not so brave, really. What about you, do you have other children?” 

“It’s just Legolas and me,” Thranduil said with a sad smile. “He tells me Sigrid is his lab partner for the semester?” Bard could recognize a swift change of subject when he saw one.

“Aye, that’s what I hear.” Bard smiled.

“Your accent. Is it Scottish?” 

“Welsh, actually, though my Da was Scottish.”

“Ah. Did you always live in London?” 

“No,” Bard sighed. “My wife’s work brought us here. But it’s home now, and the kids love it.”

“What do you do?” 

“Draughtsman.” 

“And are you an artist as well?” 

“Not nearly,” Bard laughed, but it was a dry, humourless thing. “It’s all done by computer now, and it’s all technical. No room for improvisation or creativity with obsessive designers and engineers hovering over your shoulder.” 

“Surely there’s something for you to enjoy?” 

“Aye. Leaving at the end of the day.” And going home to an empty house. Bard coughed to clear his throat. “Your career seems much more rewarding.” They stood at the mouth of a grand gallery of rich wood tones and gold filigree. It was empty but for the paintings lining the walls.

The lights had gone dim, though it was still plenty to see by. “It is,” Thranduil stood beside him, his expression soft. “I love art. I love bringing pieces together— pieces that might never have been in the same room before. I love bringing people together to see it.” 

An ache sparked in the empty space between Bard’s ribs as he looked out over the gallery. 

“There’s a certain… weight these paintings can bring to a room,” Thranduil said as he moved to stand before the first piece. “Like they’ve brought all their history with them.” 

Bard stood beside Thranduil, trying desperately to feel what he felt when he looked at it. Paul Gauguin, the plaque said. Still Life with Cherries. Bard had never seen it. Though it was beautiful, to be sure, he felt no stirring of heat in the chill that had settled over his bones. 

The gallery moved around him in a blur of colour and and flow, the impressions mixing until Bard saw them even when he closed his eyes.

 “And this,” Thranduil said as they came to the end, “This is the whole reason I put this show together. It’s rare to have them in the same country, let alone the same room.” There were two paintings hung side by side, both by Van Gogh. There were two chairs, one red and one yellow; one simple and poor, the other more ornate and cushioned. They faced each other, but they were empty.

Thranduil sat on the bench before the paintings and Bard followed. He he kept on speaking, but Bard didn’t hear a word he said as he studied the chairs. The scene felt familiar, as though Bard had been looking at it every day for seventeen years. As though he’d been living his life and only now had been afforded the chance to see it from the outside. 

“Bard?” Thranduil rested a hand on his arm and pulled him back to the present, to the low light of the gallery and the flute of champagne he still held in his hand. 

He was crying. 

“Sorry,” He wiped at his eyes with the sleeve of his jumper, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the chairs. “Sorry.” 

“No need to be sorry,” There was a soft edge to Thranduil’s voice. “I’ve had a similar reaction. These are two of my favourite paintings. Do you mind if I ask what you find moving about them?” 

“They’re—“ Bard struggled to find words to fit the ache in his chest. “I don’t know, it’s just… they’re so close to each other but they’re empty. Alone. Like no one’s sat in them for ages.”

“But look,” Thranduil pointed to the chair on the right. “There’s a torch burning on Gauguin’s chair. And Vincent left his pipe. They’re not gone. They’ve only just stood up— gone into the next room for tea. They’re empty, both have been left behind, but with the promise that someone will return. Often they’re displayed facing away from each other, but I like them better this way.” 

“Why? I mean— why this way?” 

“People like to use these chairs to illustrate the relationship between Van Gogh and Gauguin. They talk of their strained friendship and Van Gogh’s opinion of himself and Gauguin. They’re both so different— near opposites— but I like to think that these chairs are less at odds with each other and more a reflection of one another.”

Even as Bard looked between the two paintings, the scene began to change. He noticed the books and the torch on the red chair and the tobacco on the straw seat of the yellow. The lamp on the wall was lit. There was a monogrammed box on the floor. Thranduil was right; these chairs hadn’t been empty for long.

“I love being alone with artwork. That’s the way they were painted— alone— and it makes me feel connected to them. Across time, across the world. Van Gogh alone in his home. You and me alone in a gallery made for a crowd. There’s something special about that.” 

He tore his gaze away from the chairs before him and turned to Thranduil. Whatever question he’d been about to ask was lost to him as Thranduil’s lips found his. Bard’s eyes fell closed and his mind went blank, caught on the soft press of Thranduil’s lips and the rushing beat of his own heart.

He’d forgotten how it felt to have another person so close. Thranduil’s hand reached to hold his face, his long fingers catching on the loose hairs Bard hadn’t been able to tie back. It felt like he’d come home after an extended vacation— strange and novel in its familiarity. 

Bard felt— he felt warm. As though the ice under his skin had begun to melt. The tension in his shoulders began to lessen and the tight pressure against his ribs began to ease. He felt like maybe he wasn’t as empty as he’d been believing. He felt excited. He felt a part of something larger than himself. 

He felt happy. 

It took all his strength to pull away from Thranduil’s mouth. “I’m sorry, I… I can’t.” 

“Oh,” Thranduil’s fingers left his hair and immediately Bard missed them. “I’m sorry, I thought— I don’t know what I thought.”

“It’s alright,” Bard shook his head, a genuine smile growing on his lips. “I just need to be getting home.”

⨕

It was after ten when Bard returned home. The lights were on inside the house and a car was parked in the drive. The front door was unlocked when he turned his key and dread swelled in his gut like an old friend. 

“Gwen,” he sighed. “Fancy seeing you here.” All the years he’d spent wishing she’d come home and set things right, wishing he didn’t have to sleep alone and finally— _finally_ he’d begun to feel like himself again— and this was the moment she chose to show up. 

“Very funny.” She sneered. “What were you doing out so late on a Friday night?” 

“Art gallery.” 

Gwen laughed from her place at the table. “You hate art.”

“No,” Bard pulled a glass from the cupboard. “ _You_ hate art.” 

“Either way, it’s a bit late to be leaving the kids home alone.” 

“That’s rich, coming from you.” Bard leaned against the counter. 

The room was silent for a moment before Gwen sighed and stood from the table. “You’re in a foul mood tonight.” 

Bard gripped the glass in his hand, his knuckles going white and his jaw clenching. Anger flared like a bonfire in his chest. “You need to leave.” 

“What are you talking about? I just got home.” 

“No.” Bard shook his head. “No, I’ve just come home. You don’t get to call this house your home.” 

“Jesus Bard, not this again.” 

“Don’t worry, it’s the last time I’ll bring it up. You’re leaving.” Bard finished his water and set the glass down in the sink.

“I am not leaving!” 

“You are,” he argued. “And you don’t even need to pack a bag; you’ve got one right there.” He pointed to where Gwen’s suitcase sat at the end of the sofa.

“Don’t be daft!”

“If I’m daft it’s only because I’ve waited so long to finally do what’s right for my children. For myself. Too long you’ve loomed over this family like a storm cloud. Too long you’ve left the kids waiting, wondering when their mother was going to come home, only to disappoint them.” 

“I’m not leaving! I’m their mother!” Gwen shouted. Bard could see the shadows of small children creep along the wall at the bottom of the stairs. 

“You’re no more a mother to them than Hilda down the street. Sigrid asks about you sometimes, but d’you know what? Bain doesn’t talk about you. Tilda barely remembers you. She won’t notice any difference when you’re gone for good.”

“If you think for even a second that—“ 

“No, Gwen. I’m done. You don’t get to come and go as you please and threaten me with a custody battle when you start getting scared. You’re never here. You’re not part of this family. What are you even holding onto us for?”

“ _Because_ , I— We made a promise, Bard!” 

“I’ve kept up my end. I’ve been here, in this house, sleeping alone in our bed. For seventeen years I’ve waited for you to keep your promise and I can’t do it anymore. D’you know what I realized tonight? I realized how miserable you’ve made me. I had _fun_ for the first time since I can remember and it felt foreign. My entire life has been reduced to waiting for you, hating you when you don’t show up. I don’t owe you anything.” 

“Bard, I—“ 

“I don’t care, Gwen.” Tears rolled down his cheeks but he didn’t bother to brush them away. His vision blurred and his eyes burned, but Gwen just stood there, her hands hanging at her sides and a frown on her face. “You need to leave.” 

“Where am I—“

“I don’t _care_ , Gwen. Just go.” 

Bard locked the door and slid the chain into place when she finally picked up her suitcase and left. He tried to find the hint of regret he thought would be burning low in his belly, but all he felt was relief. 

Sigrid and Bain stood at the bottom of the stairs, their pyjamas wrinkled and their eyes wide. “I’m sorry you heard that,” Bard wiped the tears from his cheeks. “And I know you might be angry with me now, you might be angry with me for a long time, but—“ 

Sigrid stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Bard’s waist. Warm tears began to soak through his jumper as he held her tight and pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. Bain held back for a moment, but soon he pressed himself close against Bard’s side. 

“We’re not angry, Da.” He said. 

“We love you, Da,” came Sigrid’s unsteady reply. 

“I love you too. So much.” He said. “This… this isn’t going to be easy. But we’ll be alright. I promise, we’ll be alright.”

⨕

At first, nothing seemed to have changed. Bard still slept alone, still got the kids ready for school, still sat at his desk in front of his computer at work. But the weight in the air that had been following him around had lifted. He could feel the warmth seeping through his skin and spreading over his bones. He could breathe again. 

He called Thranduil on Monday. He was surprised to hear from him, Bard could tell, but he thought it was a good surprise. He hoped it was. “I wanted to apologize for running off so abruptly on Friday.” 

“It’s no problem, really, I shouldn’t have been so forward. I’m a bit out of practice with these things.” 

“Don’t worry,” Bard laughed. “Me too. I’d like to see you again though. If you’re interested, that is.” 

“I… I am. Yes, that would be lovely.” Bard thought he could hear the smile in his voice. 

“What are you doing right now?” 

“Now?” 

“Yes. What are you doing right now?” 

“Well I’m about to leave work for the day.” 

“At the gallery?” 

“Yes,” Thranduil laughed. “That is where I work. What are you—“ He didn’t finish his question. He didn’t need to. Bard turned around to see him standing at the entrance to the gallery, mobile still pressed to his ear and a shocked smile blooming on his face. 

“I was hoping I’d catch you,” Bard said before he disconnected the call. 

“You caught me,” Thranduil said as he came to stand before Bard. “I didn’t expect to see you again. I thought maybe I’d frightened you or…” 

“I’m not frightened.” Bard said. A cool wind whipped past them, throwing Bard’s hair in his face and pushing at his back. He stepped forward, watching Thranduil’s face for any hint of apprehension or warning. He saw none. 

Thranduil’s lips were just as soft as he’d remembered. Bard reached up to grasp at Thranduil’s chin, carded his fingers through the silver strands of his hair. His heart leapt and danced, his pulse pounded in his ears and his skin tingled as Thranduil pulled away.

Bard breathed deep, felt the cool air fill his lungs. It felt like he was coming back to life. He smiled as Thranduil tucked Bard’s windblown hair behind his ear— a true and genuine smile, still unfamiliar, but easy. 

He closed his eyes and sought out Thranduil’s lips again.

**Author's Note:**

> you can still [send me an ask](http://www.ofplanet-earth.tumblr.com/ask) to request a fic! if you don't see your prompt this month, don't despair! there are a few I won't get to before tuesday, but I plan on holding on to them for future stories. I'll credit everyone who sends a prompt when I publish the story. 
> 
> I like to tag [inspiration](http://www.ofplanet-earth.tumblr.com/tagged/30-days-of-barduil).  
> you can keep track of my word count on my [novel page](http://nanowrimo.org/participants/ofplanet-earth/novels/30-days-of-barduil) or on my [tumblr](http://www.ofplanet-earth.tumblr.com/tagged/nanowrimo).


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